


truce

by TolkienGirl



Series: Vintage Winchesters: Season 1 Tags [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean struggles with just wanting Sam to be happy, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e17 Hell House, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, and worrying that that's pointless or selfish, first spn fic written since the finale so I'm extra emo, it's ok bb (for now), laundromat fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Dean sorts socks from shirtsleeves, jeans by length. He can’t sort his thoughts so easily. He had years alone, and they didn’t give him clarity. He had a second chance with Sam, and fate gave it to him with a side-helping of death and ashes.He can’t forget that, even when things are…good.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: Vintage Winchesters: Season 1 Tags [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777720
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	truce

Sam falls asleep at the laundromat. He’s too long for the bench, which looks like it’s uncomfortable as hell under any circumstances: hard plastic, the color of a traffic cone. Sam’s knees hang over the edge, so that his boots are flat on the floor. His arms are crossed, his jacket hood pulled up. He’s snoring.

They’re the only two here, because it’s the middle of the night.

Two dryers going. That’s luxury, for them. They usually try to fit what they can in one, save a handful of quarters for coffee and toiletries. At the moment, though, Dean’s flush with pool winnings and honestly? Still in a pretty good mood from a hunt that went _well_ , if _weird_.

It was a hunt with a little competition, which they managed to flout.

 _Flout_. He turns the word over in his mind. Sam would be surprised he knows it. Sam—

Sam had been _Sammy_ again, for real this time, after hundreds (thousands) of miles and Jess. Sam had thrown back his head and laughed, had raged and schemed over itching powder and superglue. Dean can barely come close to looking at that supernova of success.

 _Sam, Sammy, happy_. He blinks.

Then he kicks the louder of the two dryers, to quiet it a bit. He reaches for a box of detergent, which lasts longer than the liquid kind, and he fiddles with the tongue of tape over its torn cardboard flap. The tape has grown linty with being peeled up over and over again. But, if he doesn’t shut it, there’ll be _fresh-and-clean_ powder all over the Impala’s rear footwells.

Dean doesn’t want that.

Sam’s snores have waned. He’s mostly just breathing now, the most familiar sound in the world. He must have been tired, because usually he’ll stay up and poke around through Dad’s journal during their late-night, solitary stops.

Dean sorts socks from shirtsleeves, jeans by length. He can’t sort his thoughts so easily. He had years alone, and they didn’t give him clarity. He had a second chance with Sam, and fate gave it to him with a side-helping of death and ashes.

He can’t forget that, even when things are…good.

The past is full of second chances, stolen from one life, given to another.

Duffels: full. He bags the detergent box, stalks to the bench. One of the long fluorescent bars overhead quivers and flickers. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up, but it’s nothing. Just his imagination, which, on its own, is mercifully powerless.

He nudges Sam’s ankle with the toe of his boot.

“Hey. Time to go.”

Sam sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Had a dream,” he murmurs, but before Dean can react, really, he says, “Not a bad one.”

“Good.” Dean pauses with the door propped half-open, cool asphalt-scented air blowing in. “Then I don’t have to hear about it.”

Sam shuffles after him. “Jerk,” he mutters, no bite to it.

Dean says, “Bitch,” and tosses him the second duffel. 


End file.
